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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29855211">i will wait</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblyincredible/pseuds/impossiblyincredible'>impossiblyincredible</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blaseball (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Letters, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Post-Ascension, Vignettes, both before and after ascension LMAO, god i have valpedro brainrot, set from after season 10 through mid-season 12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:02:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,249</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29855211</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblyincredible/pseuds/impossiblyincredible</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Valentine catches the next flight to Baltimore, he doesn’t take much with him. A couple nights’ worth of clothes, an almost-forgotten toothbrush, and a small stack of paper, carefully bundled together with twine.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Valentine Games/Pedro Davids</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i will wait</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi! i got so excited about seeing the crabs again that i had to write this i don't really have any other explanation</p><p>hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Dearest Pedro, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Forgive me—this letter likely won’t be the most eloquent thing in the world. I’m finding it hard to write this. Can you imagine that? All this time, and now’s when I falter.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I hope you’re well. I know I won’t get a reply—won’t even send this, if I’m honest!—but I do hope things are well for you in the Up. I miss you terribly. More than I can properly articulate. I write this letter if only to stop myself from talking to the air next to me, pretending as though you’re just over my shoulder or in the other room. I don’t know how else to convince myself that you’re really gone, is the thing. It’s a cruel hope that lives in the back of my mind, telling me that I can pick up the phone and the only thing stopping me from hearing your voice would be a three-hour time difference. It’s a cruel hope, but it’s persistent. I’ll give it that, at the very least. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I have no idea whether this will be the first of many or the very last letter I write, but my love, I do hope you won’t hold it against me if I can’t bring myself to write another. Come back and glare at me for it, if you like. Gods know I’d do anything for that. Anything for you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> All my love, Valentine.</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>There’s a lovely set of flowers on display in the little flower shop down the road from the stadium. Val isn’t nearly as familiar with flower meanings as Pedro is—was—<em> is</em>, but he sees the pink camellias, and his heart aches at the sight of them. Any other season, any other year, he would’ve bought them for Pedro, pressed them carefully and enclosed one in each letter he sent. Devotion over a long distance, or so Gloogle had told him. Seemed appropriate at the time.</p><p>Still is appropriate, really, but now the distance feels more like a taunt than anything else. The miles between Val and Pedro had only been bearable because they’d always been in contact, their particular red string always pulled taut. Val stands in front of the flower shop and wonders if he went in the man behind the counter would still ask about Pedro. Probably not.</p><p>He doesn’t end up buying the flowers. With nowhere to send them, they’d just wilt in his apartment, and he thinks the sight of that would break him. </p><p>Time passes, as time does, and eventually he starts to keep walking when he passes it, doesn’t pause to glance at the flowers inside.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Season eleven finishes, and Val holds his breath after the Sunbeams take the championship, watching the stadium for any sign of the Crabs, any sign of Pedro. He doesn’t know why they’d show up in the Hellmouth instead of Baltimore, but he searches anyway. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s been a long time since he was a Crab, but the carcinization never fully went away. All that’s remaining is some chitin spattered over his knuckles, and if he was a violent man he’d be grateful for the extra protection, grateful for the armor that the Great Mother had seen fit to bless him with. </p><p>But he’s never been a violent man. When Val runs his fingers over the chitin there, all he remembers is how Pedro used to smile and press his lips there.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dearest Pedro, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Have you heard about the extended siesta? Do you hear things like that up where you are? They’re leaving us to our own devices for Gods know how long, and I’m at once delighted and dismayed beyond belief. You know how these things are—always a double edged sword hidden somewhere. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The other letters are still in the drawer of my nightstand. I’ve been in contact with Nagomi, (she comes around when she can, and her company is much-appreciated, as always. She tells me Sutton and the others are doing well, if you were curious), and she’s advised me to keep them safe until you all return, to give them to you the next time I see you. I admire her certainty, even as I’m not entirely sure it’s genuine, but either way. There was no ‘if’ with her. And I don’t doubt for a second that you would come to me if you could, but that’s the question, isn’t it? If you can. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> One of these days, I’ll stop seeing you in the corner of my eye, but if that day ever comes, it’s not today. I’m in Boston, and today, between games, I paid a visit to the botanical gardens just outside the city. Don’t ask me why—I couldn’t tell you, but do you remember our time there? I’m ashamed that my memory of the day is fading, but I think you’ll be delighted to know the thing I remember in near-perfect detail is the look on your face when you fell into the fountain. Truly a sight to behold, and all for a ten dollar bet, no less. I’m smiling as I write this, because I can almost hear your indignant reply. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I think I’ll borrow Nagomi’s solid certainty for a moment and dare you to do it again, the next time we’re both in Boston. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yours, Valentine. </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Season twelve starts, and Val’s breath catches in his throat when he clicks the weather for the Tacos’ first game. It’s a black hole, yes, but that’s hardly—</p><p>He stares down at his phone, puts down his coffee, and goes to call Nagomi.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“You’re kidding. You’re—this isn’t—”</p><p>“I’m not. Check for yourself.”</p><p>A pause on the line as she pulls up the forecast, and then: “Fuck. Does Sutton know? Moco?”</p><p>Val shrugs helplessly, and then remembers Nagomi can’t see him. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t have Moco’s number, but I’ll text Sutton. Just—in a moment. I need a moment.”</p><p>A rush of breath on Nagomi’s end. “Yeah. This is—” </p><p>She stops, but Val knows what she’s thinking, because it mirrors the hope roaring to life in his chest. Pedro could come home. They all could come home. What a world it would be with Pedro in it again.</p><p>“I never thought—” Nagomi starts, “I always <em> hoped</em>, but I don’t think I ever thought for a second they’d actually come back.”</p><p>Val doesn’t mention all those days in the beginning, when Nagomi’s surety had been the only thing keeping him going, but the rush of love he feels for her almost takes him by surprise. Almost. </p><p>“Well,” he says, because it seems like the thing to say. “Obviously, we don’t know anything for sure, but—”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“We should keep an eye on things.”</p><p>“Thanks for calling, Val.”</p><p>“Better you hear it from me than the news, isn’t it?” he replies wryly. </p><p>Nagomi laughs. “Yeah, that’s for sure. Hey, I’ve got to go, but I’ll let Moco and Sutton know, if you want. And I’ll keep you updated if I see anything else.”</p><p>“Likewise.”</p><p>“Talk to you later, Val.”</p><p>“Bye, Nagomi. Good luck today.”</p><p>“Won’t need it,” she replies, and he can hear the smile in her voice. She hangs up, and Val smiles at her contact photo as he goes to take his jersey from the closet. </p><p>For a split second, in the darkness, it almost looks like a Baltimore jersey, but he blinks and pulls the door open further and it settles into Tacos purple. All these years, he thinks. All this time, and he still feels like a Crab.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dearest Pedro, </em>
</p><p><em> I must admit I’m quite at a loss for words. Are you </em> in <em> the black hole itself? What that must be like, I’ve no idea, but I carry with me the certainty that I’ll be able to ask you before the end of this season. </em></p><p>
  <em> We lost our first game today, but that’s neither a surprise nor anything really distressing, if I’m honest. I will say, it’s more than a bit startling how easily we fell into the rhythm of the season. It feels disconcertingly like we never left, and already my memories of the first years of the siesta are beginning to fade. Do you know how long it’s been, up where you are? I had to count the years this morning, and I came up with nineteen, a number that hardly feels real. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It is selfish of me, I think, to wish for you here so badly. For all I know, you’ve made a home of a cloud and a hobby of playing the harp, and to drag you down here once more would be worse than dragging you to hell. But a day has not gone by that I don’t think of you, that I don’t wish you were here with the same wild ferocity that I felt on that first night without you, and I’ve never lied to you, my love, so I will not start now. I’m so full of this ridiculous, persistent hope that I’ve hardly been able to think of much else. My apologies, if you want them.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Valentine. </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Breach imminent. That’s what the woman on the news had said. Something about a flood warning, something about expansion, something about over-under-under-over, but Val doesn’t really care about all that. Breach imminent.</p><p>When Valentine catches the next flight to Baltimore, he doesn’t take much with him. A couple nights’ worth of clothes, an almost-forgotten toothbrush, and a small stack of paper, carefully bundled together with twine. </p><p>It’s a long flight. There are less people than he would think flying to Baltimore—he knows most people are watching the news from home, on their living room couches and on their phones between work, but it’s still odd. It feels like the whole world should be rushing to Baltimore to see the team come home.</p><p>Val checks his phone. Tries to sleep. Turns on a movie and stares straight through it for thirty minutes before giving up and turning it off. Fiddles with the letters in his hands. It’s a long flight, and there is so little to do—or, he supposes, so little that could actually take his mind off Pedro. He thinks about what he’ll say when they see each other again. Thinks about all the things he wants to tell Pedro, all the things he wants to hear about the Up. </p><p>But mostly Val thinks about what it’ll feel like to hold Pedro again, what it’ll feel like to kiss him. Nineteen years’ worth of stories, of kisses, of letters. He holds the bundle tighter to his chest and sends up a prayer to any particularly merciful god that may catch it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>There’s something charged in the air when he arrives in downtown Baltimore. Everyone can feel it, and even the people commuting to their day jobs seem on edge, glancing at the shadow of the Crabitat with barely-concealed glee.</p><p>He pushes his way into the stadium, past the throngs of people that have camped out in the entryway. A streak of annoyance shoots through him, but it’s gone just as fast. Val understands. Who is he to blame them for <em> wanting, </em> when he’s doing the exact same thing?</p><p>He finds a seat close to the field, checking the time—eight thirty-seven in the morning—and settles in to wait.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He jerks awake to thunder. No—not quite thunder. It’s <em> water</em>, of all things, rushing into the stadium from—from the sky, foaming on the field and lapping up against the barrier. It’s not rain. It’s more targeted than that, more purposeful. Val grabs his bag, letters tucked safely inside, and scrambles up to a higher level of the stands. There are others in the bleachers with him, and for a second, they all stare at each other with the same startled, cautiously hopeful expression on their faces.</p><p>Val turns back to the field, starting to overflow with water still pouring into it. It smells like the sea. One of the women a few seats down gestures for him to take her hand, and when he glances past her, he sees chains of people, all holding each other’s hands, scattered throughout the stadium. </p><p>When he takes it, she squeezes lightly, and after a moment’s hesitation, he squeezes back.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>A hand, grasping frantically at the air above the water. A face, following soon after, gasping heavily. More faces, more people, emerging from the flood in the stadium. Val’s breath catches on the raw emotion in his chest when he sees Pedro make his way to the barrier and then over it, soaking wet and coughing and beautiful as Val’s ever seen him.</p><p>His voice won’t come, but it doesn’t need to. Pedro looks up, searches the stands as if he’d known, somehow, that Val would come, and when their eyes meet Val has to blink away tears as he hurries down to meet him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Val stands in front of Pedro, clutching his bag. Paralyzed somehow, even though he’d had nineteen years to figure out something romantic to say, find the perfect way to sweep Pedro off his feet. “Hey, Pedro.”</p><p>“Oh, hi, Val,” Pedro replies, eyes shining. He hasn’t stopped grinning since they saw each other. He still doesn’t as he takes a step closer, and then another, and as he pulls Val into his arms, Val is eighteen again, finding Pedro in the first week of college and sinking into his embrace like it’s the only place he was meant to be. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the dialogue at the end there is from crabmoney3's fic <a>A Thousand Letters Written, Three Words Unsaid</a>, which i highly highly recommend! </p><p>thanks for reading! if you liked this, feel free to drop a comment or a kudos, or my tumblr is @goodwinmorin &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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